


No Unwounded Soldiers

by gideonbd



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Sweet Revenge
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-02-02
Updated: 2012-02-02
Packaged: 2017-10-30 12:22:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/331695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gideonbd/pseuds/gideonbd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s them again. Those <i>demons</i> who won’t leave him alone. He can’t remember their faces anymore, and there’s a part of him that’s pissed off at himself for not remembering. It’s important that he does. He doesn’t know why, he just knows it’s important that he <i>does</i>. But he can’t.</p><p>It <i>hurts</i> too much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Unwounded Soldiers

**Author's Note:**

> A MAJOR Starsky hurt/comfort story, with some Hutch hurt/comfort thrown in later too! I daresay this is the darkest S&H story I've ever written yet.
> 
> This is also a work-in-progress, and as of writing this, I'll be doing my best to regularly update this story bit by bit until it's done. Thanks for your understanding, and I hope you're enjoying the story so far!

All he can see now is a glimmer of light. It flickers in and out of existence, a fluttering wisp of white fire.

“You _sure_ that’s what he said?”

“Yeah, _yeah_ , I’m sure. You think I don’t _listen_ when _he_ talks to us?”

“We keep going, and this guy’s _not_ gonna make it.”

It’s them again. Those _demons_ who won’t leave him alone. He can’t remember their faces anymore, and there’s a part of him that’s pissed off at himself for not remembering. It’s important that he does. He doesn’t know why, he just knows it’s important that he _does_. But he can’t.

It _hurts_ too much.

“Shit. You think I don’t _know_ that? But what the client says _goes_.”

“Both arms are broken, right?”

“Think I broke the left one yesterday. When he was still fighting.”

“Legs?”

“They’re pretty fucked up too. They probably can’t _feel_ anything now. Might as well work some more on the torso.”

It’s so dark, it’s so fucking dark and _cold_ and he’s so _thirsty_. What’s taking that big, blond idiot so long with the soda and tacos?

“Back to the cattle prods?”

“Why not. They were the only things that made him _scream_.”

Big, blond dummy better not be dawdling around chatting up ladies while he’s stuck here in the Torino all thirsty and _starving_ –

“Okay, cattle prods.”

The glimmer of light explodes into an all-consuming supernova, spitting out lightning and expanding billion of miles within him in a second. Its roar is deafening. Bursting with agony and –

“He’s still got some _juice_ in him. Just _listen_ to him! Is that an amazing sound or _what?_ ”

“Good thing we soundproofed the cellar first. They’d probably hear him all the way in Parker Center.”

Oh god, it hurts, it hurts, _it hurts_ , Hutch, _it hurts so bad_ –

“Heh, if only they knew how _close_ we are. Hey, what’s he saying?”

“He’s … calling for his partner.”

_Hutch, what’s taking you so long … Hutch, help me … help, please –_

“Since he’s talking again …”

_Hutch …_

“Yeah. I’ll make the call.”

 

& & & & &

 

The phone rings again precisely seven minutes after four in the afternoon.

“This confirms it. There’s no arranged schedule to call us.”

Hutch doesn’t say anything in reply to Dobey’s somber observation and stares at the ringing phone on the desk in front of him while every other cop in the Switchboard room stare at him in silence and empathy. This is the fourth call in the six days since Starsky was kidnapped from his apartment, and every time, _every fucking time_ , the call is too brief to be traced.

Every time, he loses more hope that Starsky will be found.

His right hand trembles, just a bit, as he raises the phone receiver to his ear.

“Hutchinson,” he says distinctly and firmly. His tone belies the roiling in his belly, the shivering of his heart gone so icy without the heat, the _life_ of his partner who should always be at his side.

For four seconds, he hears nothing.

Then, a crackling noise, like electricity sparking, igniting with death.

Then the most horrifying sound in the world, the sound of a man screaming in pain. The sound of Starsky, his beloved _Starsky_ , screaming in pain as the fucking bastards _hurt_ him _again_ –

“Tell me who you are, you sick sonofbitches, _TELL ME WHAT YOU WANT!_ ”

Hutch’s bellow reverberates off the stark walls, startling a few of the police officers present. Dobey, seated at the desk and listening to the call through another phone, stares up at him with wide, grim eyes and lips pressed into a thin line.

Starsky’s screams seem to go on for a millennia.

Hutch’s sore eyes begin to burn wet.

_Oh, Starsky, oh babe, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, babe, I –_

“Your proof that he’s still alive.”

It’s the same man who’d made all three previous calls, with that rasping, eerie voice and its abnormally placid tone. Rasping like a devious, venomous snake.

“Please, _please_ just _tell_ me what you want and I’ll do _everything_ I can to get it for you! _Just let my partner GO!_ ”

For two seconds, Hutch hears nothing again.

Then, a shuddering exhalation. A whimper, and then –

“… ‘utch … ‘elp me …”

Each whispered word stabs Hutch to the core like searing blades, ripping him apart and yet lending momentary strength to legs gone weak, singing eyes now even more damp.

“Starsky? _Starsky?!_ I _promise_ I’ll find you, Starsky, _I’ll find you_ –“

His oath goes unheard. He, in turn, hears only monotone beeping after the call’s abrupt disconnection. Upon seeing the headshake and dismayed expression of the cop who’d been tracing the call, he hurls a chair against the nearest wall, and it splinters like glass, its broken pieces falling and bouncing on the laminated floor.

And still, no one says a word.

Hutch is already speaking for all of them.

 

& & & & &

 

A light bulb. A light bulb is hanging down from the ceiling towards his face.

“The cop awake yet?”

“I think so. His eyes are open. A little.”

It’s switched on. It’s always switched on. It’s hurting his eyes, but he has to keep his eyes open. He has to see the faces of his demons again. To _remember_ them.

_Eyewitness identification, Starsk. You’ll be pointing them out from the lineup._

“So, any new orders?”

“No. He just said to keep doing what we’re doing. And keep the cop _alive_.”

“He’s coughing up blood, Cob. Even with the meds I got, he’s got _days_ at most.”

A scuffling noise, like the soles of boots travelling across gravel.

“Not our fault, then, if he croaks before the client changes his mind.”

“What’s he want from all this anyway? He’s not even _here_ to see the cop hurting. What’s he getting out of this?”

Paper unraveling. A plastic bag being opened.

“What’d I _teach_ you, Ratty? You _don’t_ question what the client _wants_. Especially when they pay _big_.”

“It just doesn’t make sense to me.”

“That’s your problem. You’re _always_ trying to figure shit out. Here, your cheeseburger. No lettuce and all that crap.”

More paper unraveling.

“Thanks. Was it the brunette girl today?”

“Yeah. You and your fucking obsession with brunettes. You got a _hard on_ for the _cop_ too?”

“I’m not a faggot, Cob. Wasn’t me who tried _fucking_ him.”

Laughter, like the prolonged susurrating of a snake.

“Boy, he fought like _hell_ , didn’t he? Bet he never had another man _touch_ him on the ass. Much less _fuck_ it.”

“You never tried that before. With the others.”

A scraping noise now. A steel blade against leather.

“You calling _me_ a faggot, Ratty? _Huh?_ ”

“No, Cob. No.”

“Good. In our line of _work_ , sometimes we gotta _do_ things to keep our clients _happy_. Understand?”

“Yes, Cob.”

Then silence, save for the masticating of food for … minutes? Hours? _Years?_

He doesn’t know. Time doesn’t exist here in this dark, cold place of demons and blinding light bulbs. Just agony. So _much_ of it.

_I’ll find you, Starsky. I promise I will._

“Turn the TV on.”

A clicking sound. A split-second buzz.

“… _the urgent search for Detective Sergeant David Starsky continues into its seventh day. The Metro Division of the BCPD has increased their reward to thirty-thousand US dollars for the return of Detective Starsky alive, or the arrest and conviction of the person or persons responsible for his abduction …_ ”

“Heh, if we weren’t being paid _twice_ as much …”

“Well, that’s what I mean. He’s paying us _that_ much, but he doesn’t even _ask_ for anything from the cops or come around.”

“Who _gives_ a fuck what his motives are for wanting this cop to _hurt?_ ”

“But … it’s our rule, Cob … we only take jobs that deal with _bad_ guys –“

A vicious slam of flesh against flesh, powerful enough to provoke a cry of distress.

“You think a cop can’t be _bad_ , huh? You already forgot what happened in Salem?!” Another vicious slam of flesh against flesh. Another cry, louder. “What’d I _say_ , Ratty, _huh?!_ You _DON’T_ question clients who pay us _BIG money!_ ”

“Sorry, Cob … s-sorry.”

“Shut up. Finish your fucking cheeseburger and keep an eye on the cop. I’m going up. It _stinks_ down here.”

More scuffling on gravel. Footsteps on wood, stomping upwards and away. The slam of a door.

Silence, once more.

The light bulb is flickering in and out of sight again. The television is still switched on, airing an advertisement for a floor cleaner. The air is cold and stale. Something wet is trickling down his face and neck from his nose and mouth, from his eyes.

Something warm and calloused touches his hair, the crown of his head. A hand. The large hand of a man.

Hutch? Has Hutch finally found him?

“It’s the rule, you see. We have to follow the rule, or everything breaks down.”

No, not Hutch. It’s one of the demons. The demon who stayed. The one called Ratty.

“Are you evil, Detective Starsky? Are you _really_ evil like he said you are?”

The large, calloused hand brushes the wetness from his cheek, and quietly, inevitably, his eyes shut and he plummets into oblivion.

 

& & & & &

 

The light bulb is switched off. It’s the first time this has occurred since he ended up here, wherever the fuck _here_ is.

It is also the one time he wishes it _hadn’t_.

His vision has cleared and sharpened, for one. His hearing is no longer interspersed with static droning. His skin isn’t as numb anymore, and it’s telling him that he’s naked and sprawled on his back on a steel bed frame sans mattress, that he’s beaten up pretty bad from head to toe and probably has the lovely complexion of a rotten, mashed eggplant. He sure _feels_ like one.

Attempting to move at all is a huge mistake. All the nerves in his body seem to simultaneously go up in flames, particularly the nerves along his arms and flanks. He doesn’t even realize he’s groaning until he has to draw precious breath. Oh shit, oh _shit_ , it hurts so _bad_. Even getting shot multiple times and recovering from the wounds hadn’t hurt as much as this. How the hell is he still _alive?_

The bastards who’ve kidnapped and _tortured_ him … they must be _pros_ at this. _Fuck!_

An eon later, after panting through the pain and blinking away a deluge of tears, he tentatively raises his quivering left forearm and squints at it. He is perplexed to see it tightly bandaged with wooden splints. When he raises his right forearm into view, he sees that it’s also tightly bandaged with wooden splints. What the … why would they bother treating his broken arms after everything they’ve _done_ to him?

“You’re lucky you blacked out. Don’t think you would have enjoyed me resetting the bones.”

If he had the energy for it, he would have jumped right off the bed frame upon hearing those words uttered so near to him. As it is, all he can do is let his bound forearms drop back onto the crisscrossing steel bars of the bed frame and rein in his rapid, shallow breaths. Not only are his arms broken, so are some of his ribs. He doesn’t even want to _think_ about his legs. He can’t even _feel_ them. Are they even _there?_

“Can’t do much for the ribs. Your legs aren’t broken, but I think Cob fractured the right fibula. I’ve bandaged it too.”

It’s the younger of the duo, Ratty, sitting next to the bed frame on a wooden chair. The television is still on but muted and positioned somewhere behind Ratty. It being the sole source of illumination, it’s transformed Ratty into a featureless, black silhouette.

Ratty. Yeah, he remembers this Ratty now. Ratty was the strawberry-blond, young man who’d approached him on the street outside his apartment as he was locking the Torino.

_Sorry to bother you, mister, but could I use your phone to call a friend? My car’s broken down a few blocks from here and I got no money for a cab._

Ratty was skinny to the point of being emaciated and was several inches shorter than him. Ratty had smiled at him, hands in the side pockets of grubby jeans, shoulders hunched under a black t-shirt, looking like an awkward kid fresh out of high school. Maybe Ratty _is_ just a kid out of high school. A high school kid capable of physically brutalizing a hardboiled senior homicide detective for days on end while fantasizing about young brunette girls at fast food joints and eating cheeseburgers right beside his dying vict–

No. _No_ , not a victim. _Not_ a _dying victim_.

He can’t die.

Hutch hasn’t found him yet.

“The rule is, we only punish the _bad_ guys.”

_Oh yeah? And what exactly is your definition of ‘bad’ here, Mr. Cop-Kidnapper-and-Torturer?_

Shit, his lips aren’t moving. How’s he supposed to defend himself here if he can’t even _talk?_

“Cob said you’re an evil man. He said the client told him all the evil things you’ve done. He said innocent people die because of you.”

He struggles against the urge to close his eyes, to surrender to the upwelling of grief within him. Oh god, no, this whole mess isn’t another of George Prudholm’s fucked up schemes, is it? Hasn’t that crazy bastard robbed him _enough?_

“But … I like to do research, see. I like to know everything I can about something. Or someone. So I read about you. Newspaper articles, mostly.”

_Hope you didn’t just read the first part of Christine Phelps’ article about me and Hutch._

Shit, lips still not moving. His body’s starting to go numb again. He can’t decide whether that’s a positive thing or not.

“There was that black teenage boy you shot a few years ago. But that was in self-defense. You could have killed George Prudholm for shooting your girlfriend in the head. But you didn’t. And that time you were kidnapped by Simon Marcus’ followers, you had no obligation to help that girl. But you did.”

He blinks, then resumes staring at Ratty’s silhouette, at where Ratty’s face should be. If Ratty’s bringing up Prudholm’s name so casually, it probably _isn’t_ Prudholm behind this. After what happened to Terry – his sweet, generous Terry – the institution incarcerating Prudholm now inspects every little scrap of communication that comes to or goes out from the mentally ill man. What are the odds it’s Prudholm planning an elaborate kidnap-and-torture session like this, and paying _sixty-thousand dollars_ for it?

And that girl … that girl’s Gail Harcourt. Yeah, the young woman who’d stood up for him when Marcus’ other followers abused him, who eventually overcame her brainwashing via psychiatric treatment and returned to normal life with her parents. She’d been featured in front page articles in various national newspapers after they were rescued by Hutch and a whole squad of cops, and he was always mentioned in said articles because Gail considered him her ‘angel who helped her see the light’.

He’d like to see the light, too. See its halo of gold around an angelic face with those bright, blue eyes and that perfect nose and those even more perfect lips.

_Where are you, Hutch? I miss you so much. Everything hurts so bad. Take me away from here, Hutch. Please._

“But all that doesn’t mean you haven’t done evil things. Lots of evil things aren’t reported by the papers. Lots of evil things go unpunished in this world. That’s why people like me and Cob, we gotta do what we have to.”

Ratty stands up soundlessly, then disappears from his sight. Several seconds later, the light bulb above him is switched on, and he squeezes his eyes shut, averting his face from it.

Ratty’s tepid breath against his cheek snaps his eyes wide open again.

“Cob said that you _must_ have done evil things, for somebody to _want_ this to happen to you.”

Indeed, Ratty’s hair is strawberry-blond. Straight and long, down to the shoulders and parted in the middle. It’s surprisingly neat and combed. Ratty’s face is shadowed, hidden by the long hair from the radiance of the light bulb.

“What were the evil things you did, Detective Starsky? You should confess. Before it’s too late.”

_Too late for what? Saving my soul from going to hell? I’m already in it –_

“You’re not leaving this cellar alive, you know. Cob said the client wants you dead sooner or later, no matter what the cops promise us. But don’t worry, I’ll help you stay alive for as long as I can. I got meds and first aid kits. I’ll _buy_ you time to confess.”

Ratty’s eyes are blue, just like Hutch’s, but they’re so _dead_ and –

“If you confess, you can go to heaven. You want to go to _heaven_ , don’t you?”

God, no, he’s wrong, they’re _not_ like Hutch’s eyes at all, they’re the eyes of a fucking _psychopath_ and, _no_ –

“After you, we’re going after your partner, see. If _he_ confesses to the evil things he’s done, he’ll go to heaven too. That’s a comforting thought, isn’t it?”

 _No … no, oh god, Hutch, no,_ _NOOOOOO!_

As trails of wetness renew themselves across the landscape of Starsky’s battered face, Ratty gently pats his hair and smiles beatifically down at him.

 

& & & & &

 

“I don’t know this dude, Hutch, but he claims he has _word_ on who Starsky’s kidnappers are. Wouldn’t leave unless I arranged a _meet_.”

There are bags of fatigue beneath Huggy’s expressive, brown eyes. Like Hutch, Huggy has hardly slept a wink in days, having spent as many waking hours as possible looking up every contact in his books for any information about Starsky. The results of his frantic labor have so far amounted to a frustrating, shocking zilch in reliable intel.

Until tonight.

“At this point, anything is better than _nothing_ ,” Hutch says, his unshaven face set in a seemingly permanent scowl, his eyes raw and red, and Huggy nods in understanding.

The most crucial hours in any kidnapping case are the first twelve. After twenty-four hours, the chances of finding the victim alive dive drastically. After forty-eight hours, particularly if there is no contact from the kidnapper(s), the chances are near zero. After _nine days?_

Some of the cops on the search team are now referring to Starsky in past tense.

Hutch had punched at least two of them in the face. IA has yet to bust his ass for it, and very likely never will. Who’s nuts enough to stand in the way of Detective Sergeant Ken Hutchinson, the cop who brought down James Marshall Gunther, during a crisis like _this?_ Who’s nuts enough to tell him what to feel or how to act after the kidnappers’ first phone call to the Metro?

The call had come thirty-eight hours after Starsky’s disappearance. It had been recorded on tape in the hopes of the forensics team gleaning clues about Starsky’s whereabouts. Less than fifteen seconds of listening to the recorded call via speakers in the lab, one of the technicians was so sickened by the sounds of bone breaking and Starsky screaming that he’d vomited his breakfast into the nearest trash can. Less than an hour after that, dozens of cops in the Metro had heard about or actually listened to the ghastly call and then approached a sorrow-crazed Hutch to give support and volunteer to be part of the search team.

When one of their own has been captured and harmed, when his co-workers – his brothers-in-arms, _friends_ – are powerless to stop his suffering and time is running _out_ , the walls between departments matter fuck all.

The search team, working in tandem with the Missing Persons Bureau, has been scouring the city streets since. But like Huggy, they have come up empty-handed despite exhausting their own sources of intel, despite going to the extent of hunting down as many living criminals Starsky and Hutch had dealt with in the city as they could and shaking them down hard. Astonishingly, no one has any goddamn idea who’d abducted Starsky and why. Not the snitches, the mobsters, the dealers, the ex-cons, not even the lowliest ratfinks with their ears constantly on the ground.

No one, except this hooded mystery man seated in front of the ornate, mahogany desk in Huggy’s office on the first floor of The Pits.

“You the missing cop’s partner?”

The man’s voice is mild and smooth for his height and size. Hutch is certain that the guy is at least three to four inches taller than him and at least thirty pounds heavier. All muscle too, if the trim physique, bulging biceps in the tight, blue hoodie and long, runner’s legs in jeans are anything to go by. Not somebody to be messed with or piss off, by any means.

Hutch ‘s right hand itches for the Magnum holstered to his left side under his black leather jacket.

“Yeah,” Hutch says, sitting on a chair opposite the hooded man’s. “Detective Sergeant Ken Hutchinson. BCPD.”

The hooded man doesn’t introduce himself. Instead, with most of his face obscured, he blatantly assesses Hutch by eyeballing Hutch from head to toe and back.  Whatever he sees must have been satisfactory, for he replies, “Yeah, I heard about you. Took down Gunther on your own.”

Hutch hears respect in those words.

“You have information about the kidnappers?”

Again, the hooded man takes his time to answer, and merely stares at Hutch’s face for a while. Then, with one sweep of a gloved hand, he swipes the hood back, revealing his shaven head to Hutch and Huggy.

Behind him, Hutch hears Huggy gasp aloud. If he had never seen the scars on Starsky’s chest after the shooting in the Metro car park, never seen the awfulness of Starsky’s torso riddled with bullets and gushing rivers of blood, he would probably have gasped as well at the atrocious, curving scars marring the entire left side of the man’s pale face. The scars are so severe that they’ve distorted the man’s left milky eye, nostril and lips, slanting them upwards as if the skin had melted and then been wrenched before solidifying.

“A nasty muthafucker called Cobra did this to me,” the man calmly says, pointing a forefinger at the scars. “Took a hunting knife to my face and tried to cut the skin and muscle off my skull. Tried to gouge out my left eyeball too, but he failed.” The right end of his lips fleetingly contort into a parody of a smirk. “Left him a _gift_ of my own though. A foot-long gash on his chest, courtesy of the same hunting knife.”

Gazing the man in the eye, Hutch asks, “ Cobra? Who is he?”

“A hitman. Freelancer. Did jobs for a few mob bosses in Nevada and Oregon. He has a partner, goes by Rattlesnake.” The man pauses, then says in a lower tone, “They specialize in torturing and maiming people. The tougher you are, the more they hurt you. The more they _enjoy_ it. And they don’t just fuck with your body, they fuck with your _mind_ too.”

Hutch’s fingers dig into his knees. Yes, he’ll take this guy’s word for it. The proof is right here in front of him. But as for the validity of the info …

“How do you know they’re responsible for Starsky’s kidnapping?”

They continue to stare each other in the eye. Then, the man says, “You’ve been receiving calls to your precinct. Calls that force you to listen to your partner screaming from the agony of their torture. Calls too short to be traced. And all you’ve ever heard the kidnapper say is, ‘Your proof that he’s still alive’. Am I right?”

Hutch’s fingers claw even deeper.

“Yes,” he whispers, his throat dry, the back of his eyes stinging. Although the calls had been mentioned in the news, their nature and content was not. Only a cop or forensics tech involved with the case would know such confidential details. Or someone who _got_ to one of those cops or techs.

Or … someone who’s experienced the same horror –

“So, they _are_ here.” The man has tugged the hood over his head once more, but his one-sided smile is evident to Hutch’s eyes. It is a smile of anticipation, a smile hungry for the settling of old scores. “Cobra is in his early forties. Six foot one, with dark brown hair in a crew cut and hazel eyes. Has a colored tattoo of an Indian cobra on his upper left arm. Rattlesnake is in his late twenties, five foot nine, with straight, blond hair and blue eyes. Also has a tattoo of a snake. A Western diamondback, on his back.”

Hutch has to take a deep breath and swallow hard before saying sincerely, “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet, detective. What makes you think I’m going to hand them over to the authorities when I find them?”

Unable to gauge the hooded man’s disposition through sight now, Hutch relies on his judgment of the man’s tone. It’s composed, cool. Lacking suspicion or anger. It’s a question masking another question, masking the true question not verbally asked.

A _plea_.

“You wouldn’t have told me any of this if you intended to find them yourself, to get that thirty-thousand dollar reward. You want my help to find them. You _want_ me to find them before you do. Don’t you?”

The hooded man’s smile turns sardonic, self-deprecatingly so. He bows his head and murmurs, “Rattlesnake, the younger one. He kept asking me to tell him all the evil things I did. To _confess_ , even as he was shoving slivers of wood under my fingernails. He kept saying that I had to confess if I wanted to go to _heaven_. Kept at it for _days_.”

Hutch’s eyes flit to the man’s gloved hands. He grimaces, the mere thought of undergoing such physical torment churning his stomach.

“But you know the really fucked up part? Even after I’d escaped from them, I couldn’t stop thinking about what he’d said. It was like he’d _planted_ it into my head, and it grew into this _weed_ that’s consumed my mind. Thinking about evil, over and over. All the evil things I did. All the evil things I might do. All the evil things that’ll stop me from entering heaven even if I confess.”

Hutch also bows his head, a despondent smile adorning his features. He hears what the man is _really_ saying. He’s walked down the same road as this man, the road leading to many endings. The ending of another human life at his hands. The ending of freedom. The ending of innocence. He’s walked down the same road many times … but he’s always turned back, no matter how strong the temptation for retribution was.

And now this man, this man with no name and half a face, wants to turn back too, before it’s too late.

“You want revenge,” Hutch says, raising his head. “But you want me to stop you.”

“No,” the man says, head still bowed. “I want _justice_.”

“Justice of the _biblical_ kind? Eye for an eye?” Hutch asks, impassive. “ _Face_ for a _face?_ ”

The answer the man gives is not what Hutch expects at all.

“A partner for a partner.”

The weight of a world’s anguish is bearing down on those five whispered words.

Hutch gapes at the hooded man, his blue eyes wide with encroaching revelation. A partner … this guy had a _partner_ once. Is this guy just like him? A _cop?_ A cop who also had to listen to his own partner screaming in pain as he was tortured by those two sadistic criminals?

“You –“

By the time Hutch leaps to his feet, the hooded man is already off the chair and halfway to the open door of the office, broad shoulders stiff and squared. Huggy, who’d been quiet all this time, hastily steps out of the man’s way, glancing at him with pity.

“ _Wait!_ ”

Hutch’s cry halts the hooded man’s steps at the door.

Hutch takes a step forward, then murmurs, “Who _are_ you?”

For one long minute, the hooded man peers at him over one shoulder, and in that minute, Hutch is equally frozen in place. Frozen inside by the sudden feeling that someone has just trudged over his grave.

Over _Starsky’s_ grave.

“Who am I?” The hooded man swivels around to face him, for one last time. “I’m someone who hopes you don’t become _me_.”

 

& & & & &

 

That night, for the first time since Starsky’s abduction, Hutch dreams of his partner. His partner in all ways.

_Look at my big, blond beauty. All ready for me to eat._

Starsky is stripping next to the bed, shimmying out of those sinfully small cut-off jeans shorts with the flexibility of a topnotch belly dancer. Aiming that impish grin at him. Lighting up his whole world.

“Think you got it the other way around, Gordo,” he says huskily, licking his lips while ogling Starsky’s naked, gorgeous body, and Starsky lets out a wicked chuckle that causes him to chuckle too.

_Oh no, I got it right the first time._

Starsky crawls onto the bed like a majestic big cat towards him, stretching that sinewy torso, arching that graceful back to flaunt that ample _ass_.

_I wanna fuck myself on your cock, Blondie. Swallow ya up so deep you’ll blow like a volcano._

“ _Holy_ … a -are you trying to _kill_ me?”

Starsky is straddling his legs now, unashamedly rubbing a hard, hot cock against his thigh and eyeing _his_ hard, hot cock with big, sultry eyes. Gripping it with hands so familiar with it, hands that stroke him so well that he’s more rigid than rock, angling up towards his flat belly. Rigid and so fucking ready to _drill_ –

_No, but I’m about to ... Hold still, baby … yeah, just like that! Oh, yeaaaah!_

And without warning, Starsky is sinking onto his cock, enveloping it in such luscious heat and _tightness_ and _ooh_ , this is what he’s been waiting for all day, burying himself inside Starsky to the hilt, feeling Starsky grind down on him. Hearing Starsky whimper just like that, hearing Starsky breathe his name just like _that_.

“Oh my god, Starsky! _Oooohh_ … did you –“

_Mmm, shaddup … I lubed and stretched myself in the bathroom, ‘kay … mmmhh, lemme do the work …_

They groan in unison as Starsky lifts himself off Hutch’s erection, up to its leaking head, and then slides back down in one thrust. It’d taken more than a few attempts for Starsky to become accustomed to anal sex, to the overwhelming, sometimes painful sensation of yielding to his larger-than-average cock, and to have Starsky accepting him so effortlessly, so _flawlessly_ like this now … fucking _beautiful_ doesn’t even begin to describe it.

Clutching his shoulders, Starsky starts to ride him hard, panting and crying out with every slam of those rounded buttocks on his hips. Half-sitting as he is against the pillows and headboard, he has an unhindered, direct view of Starsky’s lithe body engulfing his cock again and again, of Starsky’s flushed face above his and Starsky’s open mouth that he kisses and devours. Sweat trickles down Starsky’s cheek and jaw, dripping onto his neck and chest. Starsky smells and tastes and sounds and _feels_ so damn _good_ –

_Gonna come … gonna come, Hutch, gonna –_

Starsky moans piercingly when he squeezes the base of Starsky’s erection to keep orgasm at bay, a shattered moan that escalates in pitch when he then holds Starsky’s hips in place and plunges as deep as he can go into his partner, pulling completely out then back in again. Starsky’s throwing his head back, panting harshly at the swift staccato of his thrusts, and he’s panting too, eyes widening with awe and love as Starsky stiffens and shouts his name and comes all over his chest. Marking him as Starsky’s. For life.

God, so damn _perfect_.

He thinks he shouts Starsky’s name as he also comes, erupting deep inside Starsky, convulsing from the pleasure, from Starsky’s hands massaging the still-warm come into his skin as if Starsky wants him to _absorb_ it into himself. He isn’t sure. When he peels his eyes open, he is reclined on his back on the bed, a blanket swathing him up to the waist. Starsky is partially lying on top of him, head of curls tucked in the crook between his neck and shoulder, furry arm and leg thrown possessively across his hairless torso and legs. Starsky is sighing with repletion. Nuzzling his neck, at the stable pulsation there.

_Love you, Hutch. Love you so much._

Starsky has uttered those words to him so many times now, but every time, every single time, they move him profoundly.

“I love you, Starsky. I always will, no matter what happens.”

_Even if I lose my mind-blowingly handsome looks?_

“Yes, you _modest_ man,” Hutch replies, smiling into Starsky’s thick curls.

_Even if I became a cripple? If I can’t be a cop anymore?_

There is no trace of humor in Starsky’s mumble this time. Starsky’s arms are taut around him, cradling him like a treasure of infinite value.

Caressing the curvature of Starsky’s lower back, brows furrowed, Hutch says resolutely, “Yes. Of course I will. Never doubt that.”

There’s something else in bed with them now, something murky and devoid of warmth that has no place here. Something he thought they’d left behind in the hospital after months of Starsky’s strenuous, painful recuperation from those damn bullet wounds. Something that only haunts him in his nightmares where Starsky lays bleeding on the cement ground next to the Torino, and doesn’t ever wake up.

Starsky says nothing for so long that he assumes the suddenly morbid conversation is over.

_Sometimes I feel like the ghosts of my past will never let me go._

Hutch’s hand goes still for a moment.

“That’s a pretty gloomy thought coming from you,” he says with what he hopes is slight amusement, stroking Starsky’s lower back once more.

_Sometimes I’m so scared to love ya like I do. Like something’s out there just waiting to … to take it all away from me. To take yo–_

Hutch doesn’t complain when Starsky constricts the embrace around his body. He runs his fingers through Starsky’s hair, hugging Starsky back as hard, recognizing and empathizing with his partner’s need for reassurance. How many times have they already been bereft of loved ones? How many times have they already stared death in the eye, and lost a piece of themselves each time? How much more _loss_ can two men endure, before it’s too much?

He can’t promise that death won’t win in the end. Death, the ultimate fairness, always does.

But there are some things that even death can’t triumph over forever.

“Not going to happen. Even death can’t split us. If it takes you away from me first … well, put a gun to the head the right way, pull the trigger and you won’t feel a thing. Or so I hear.”

Starsky scrambles up on all fours over him so fast that he bounces on the mattress, the blanket covering their lower bodies a rumpled heap on his shins and feet. Starsky’s big blue eyes are glaring, stark with righteous fury.

_That is NOT funny, Hutch. You do NOT fucking JOKE about something like that, ya hear me?!_

Hutch doesn’t blink once as they stare at each other, Starsky breathing hard and he not making a sound.

“I wasn’t joking,” he says, solemn and true. “You think I want to go on without you?”

Starsky’s lower lip quavers, and for one second, just one, Hutch is almost convinced that Starsky is going to slug him.

_You stupid asshole. You stupid, mushy, loyal –_

Hutch feels a dampness on his shoulder where Starsky’s face has burrowed. Starsky’s arms are tauter than ever around his torso, but he doesn’t complain. A huge lump in his throat is hushing him.

_I woulda gone for slashing the arms in a bathtub. Less of a mess for the clean-up crew._

Starsky’s voice is muffled. Choked.

A century of crushing, tender embraces and gentle kisses on dark curls passes. Then, Hutch whispers, “And what if we both live to be ninety-nine years old, and own that dream retirement house by the beach in Rio, as in love as we are now?”

Starsky doesn’t say anything for a long time.

_Are we that lucky, Hutch? Are we?_

Starsky’s voice is steadier now. Resigned.

“Yes,” Hutch replies, “ _yes_ ,” but when he opens his eyes again, he is alone in bed, as he has been for the last nine days. Alone with an answer that is turning into a lie. And the dream … no, it wasn’t a dream. It was a memory. A memory of the last time they’d made love, the last time he’d touched and smelled Starsky’s hair, kissed Starsky’s cheeks and lips, listened to that mischievous, resonant laugh and seen that stunning smile. The last time he’d told Starsky he loved him.

He kicks off the blanket and sits on the side of the bed. He doesn’t know how long he sits there, waiting for the heartless dawn to arrive, waiting for search results from the Computer Center at the Metro on the physical descriptions he’d been given of Starsky’s kidnappers, for new intel from Huggy and the search team on the kidnappers and on the mysterious hooded man.

He sits, wordlessly, meditatively, and stares at his formidable, fully loaded Magnum heavy on his right palm.

 

& & & & &

 

“You’re holding on for him, aren’t you? Your partner.”

The light bulb isn’t switched on today. Light is emanating from somewhere else. A serene and heavenly light.

“You still haven’t confessed. You’re going to go to hell, you know. And you’ll _never_ see your partner again.”

The light is golden. Like sunshine. Like Hutch’s hair in the sunshine. Hutch had laughed once when he told Hutch how beautiful his blond hair was. Laughed and then kissed him and ran those long fingers through his dark curls, and told him how beautiful _his_ hair was –

“You hear that rattling sound? It’s your lungs. You know what it _means_ , don’t you?”

And Hutch had cried when he opened his eyes, cried when they were finally alone in the hospital room and the doctors and nurses finally stopped poking and prodding him and asking him what year it was, who the President was and whether he was feeling pain or not, and then Hutch had said, _Starsky, you’re alive, you’re alive –_

“You’re _dying_ , Detective Starsky. And you still haven’t _confessed_.”

And a long time ago, years ago, maybe when they were still getting to know each other and they were still afraid to fully acknowledge the devastating love they had – _have_ – for each other, Hutch had said he once wanted to be a doctor and knew Grey’s Anatomy from cover to cover. Said that when people are near death, sometimes they seem to get better before going down for good, as if they were being given one last chance to say something to anyone nearby, to say what must be said, what _should_ have been said earlier when they could still _do_ something –

“Fucking _bastards!_ _FUCK!_ ”

A door slams viciously against a wall. Frantic footsteps thunder down wooden steps.

“Cob, what the _fuck_ –“

“The fuckers found us. _They_ _found us!_ ”

“ _What?_ Are you saying the _cops_ have – but _how_ –“

“I saw them, two _pigs_ in uniform eyeing me at the grocery. I saw one of them talking into his fucking radio while they were eyeing me and they followed me into the car park and they _tailed_ me! _Fuck!_ ” Crunching gravel under pacing rubber soles. And panting, harsh panting edged with panic. “I managed to lose them on Stanford Avenue, ditched the car and walked back but the fuckers _know_ we’re in the area now and we –“

“Cob, _Cob_ , we told _nobody_ about this job. There’s _nobody_ in this town who _knows_ us –“

“ _SOMEBODY_ DOES! _Somebody_ told those _COPS_ about us –“

“Look, you said you _lost_ them, right? We still got time to _finish_ this, move to the _other_ hideout –“

“No, we finish this _now_.”

The light is growing brighter, gold transmuting into blazing white. He doesn’t feel any pain anymore. He doesn’t feel _anything_ anymore.

_I’m really dying, aren’t I, Blondie?_

“But what about _him?_ The orders from the client were to keep him alive as long as possible till he croaked on his _own_.“

_I didn’t confess … which means I’m … going to hell …_

“You said so yourself, Ratty. The cop’s _done for_. And the client doesn’t have to know _everything_ , does he?”

_And Blondie … I know you’re … not going to confess to anything either … which means …_

“So what do we do, Cob?”

_Which means I … can’t say a word … or we’ll … never be together again ..._

“I _told_ you, we’re gonna finish this now, and then we’re gonna bail. The _hole’s_ deep enough.”

_Ah, Blondie … you oughta see … this beautiful light … so beautiful like your hair … like you …_

“Got no time to cement the top though.”

_I won’t … say a word … I promise …_

“Forget it. We’ll just cover it with the crates.”

“Okay. So I do the packing?”

_Not … a word … I …_

“Yeah. Get me the shovel."

 

& & & & &

 

The SWAT body armor is snug and heavy around his torso. The lightweight, magazine-fed M16 rifle hangs even heavier from an adjustable strap around his shoulder. His Magnum is strapped to a thigh holster on his right leg. The sun won’t be rising for another hour or so, but he is already sweating under his dark grey t-shirt.

“You will stick close to me at all times. You do _not_ fire your weapon unless I say so. And whatever you do inside that house, you run it by me _first_. Do you understand, Detective Hutchinson?”

Captain Daniel Lieber’s voice is sonorous with authority that tolerates no insubordination. Its lack of arrogance, however, is what prompts Hutch to reply quietly, “Understood, sir.”

The fact that Lieber is even permitting him to be part of the SWAT team about to raid the inconspicuous, olive green, single-story house a block down the street – Naomi Avenue, just two and a half goddamn miles away from the Metro – is a miracle in itself. He had expected to be shoved to the sidelines, to be a mere spectator like the uniformed officers who’d caught sight of one of the kidnappers at a grocery store just a five minutes’ drive away from here. The last thing he wants to do now is to change Lieber’s mind and lose this opportunity to be one of the first on scene when they find Starsky.

When they find Starsky _alive_.

He _ha_ s to be.

“You remember Vicky Cooper?”

Lieber’s question is such a non-sequitur to Hutch that, for a moment, he is at a loss for words. Of all the times to talk about _women_ –

“Vicky Cooper. She still lives in Boulder City with her daughter, Cary, and her mom. She’s my first cousin, on my mother’s side.”

Hutch’s mouth opens in an ‘o’ shape as the image of a voluptuous, dark-haired and sweet-mannered woman in a skimpy showgirl costume materializes in his mind. Okay, _that_ Vicky, he remembers. He and Starsky had met her in her dressing room at the Thunderbird Hotel in Las Vegas several years ago, and she had later been embroiled in their investigation of the Las Vegas Strangler when someone she knew became another of his victims. Although Starsky was the one who romanced her during their transitory stay in the city, Hutch had also liked her, not just for her outer _and_ inner beauty but because of her love for her daughter and her tireless determination to give her daughter a better future.

Giving her all their gambling winnings to help with her debts and her daughter’s operations had been a no-brainer decision.

“I know what you and Detective Starsky did for Cary. Thanks to your generosity, Cary now walks and runs without ever needing crutches or braces again.” Lieber’s austere features soften as he adds, “You’re good cops. Good men. Vicky talks often about you two.”

The small smile that curves up the tips of Hutch’s lips is a genuine one, the first in many days. Yeah, he can definitely see the resemblance between Vicky and Lieber now, with Lieber’s thick, dark hair and blue eyes and tall, robust physique.

“I’m glad her daughter’s doing well.”

Lieber nods, then says, “If my partner was trapped in a house with two psychopathic criminals, I’d want to be in there to bring him out, too.”

After swallowing hard, Hutch replies gruffly, “Thank you.”

Lieber nods again.

“Alright. Get your helmet. We’re going in.”

 

& & & & &

 

Pain. So much _pain_ again.

“You’re a lot _heavier_ than you look, cop.”

There are walls all around him, closing in on him, obscuring the light from him. The walls are black and rough and cutting into his skin and oh god, it _hurts_. Everything hurts so fucking _bad_.

“This wasn’t how things were supposed to go, but who am I to complain about burying somebody alive?”

The voice is speaking to him from far away, far and high away as if it’s booming down from the heavens.

“Never buried somebody alive before. I’ve skinned and scalped and gutted people, but – _unf!_ – never buried somebody _alive_ before.”

Something coarse and gritty is raining down upon him in gusts, stinging his eyes and clogging his nostrils and throat and he coughs, twisting his head from side to side. His head is all he can move now. His left arm is jammed beneath him, his right wedged between his torso and a wall. His legs are gone, entombed in beige dunes that remind him of arid deserts. Is he in a desert? Is he in hell now, being judged by god who’s laughing at him?

“You scream all you want, cop. No one’s gonna hear you. Least of all your _Hutch_.”

Oh fuck, the coughing’s making the pain worse and he can’t stop and, oh Hutch, _Hutch_ , this is _it_ , isn’t it? This is where it all ends, with no time for goodbyes or a kiss or even a _smile_ –

“… too bad I never got to actually fuck your _ass_ … I was saving that for _last_ …”

And it’s getting so dark now, giant blocks of black clouds shrouding the sky and that horrible gritty stuff is in his eyes and nose and mouth and he can’t breathe, oh god, _oh god_ , he can’t _breathe_ anymore and he can’t _see_ anything anymore and Hutch, oh Hutch, scared, _Hutch_ , scared, _scared_ –

“… ashes to ashes, dust to dust and all that shit … heh ...”

_Scared … so … scared, Hutch … and I can’t …_

“… so, cop …”

_… can’t …_

“… let’s see how long you can hold your breath.”

 

 

(To be continued ...)


End file.
